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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



This edition consists of fifty copies on imperial vellum, num- 
bered from i to 50, and signed, and two hundred and fifty 
copies on Grolier laid paper, numbered from 51 to 300. This is 

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OSCAR WILDE 

FRAGMENTS AND MEMORIES 



OSCAR WILDE 

FRAGMENTS AND MEMORIES 



BY 

MARTIN BIRNBAUM 

h 



NEW YORK 

JAMES F. DRAKE, INC. 

1914 



TR^a 3 



Copyright, 19 14, by 

Martin Birnbaum 



Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England 



SEP 22 1914 

AU rights reserved 



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'CU379585 

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OSCAR WILDE 

FRAGMENTS AND MEMORIES 



OSCAR WILDE 

FRAGMENTS AND MEMORIES 




ARLY in the nineties an 
ambitious young American 
had a play produced in Lon- 
don. After the final cur- 
tain some rowdies in the pit 
coaxed the inexperienced playwright to appear 
before the footlights and proceeded to "boo" 
and hiss him off as soon as he stepped in 
view. But the young man was not crushed. 
"They will have to applaud me yet," he ex- 
claimed, and his subsequent meteoric career 
proved that he had fine talents. At that 
time, however, there were few in London who 
would listen to his verses, stories, and plays, 
and fewer still to buy them. In a note- 

Da 



book of the period we find him paraphras- 
ing an ancient pessimistic troubadour, — 

My fate is like the nightingale's, 

That singeth all night long, 
While still the woodlands mournfully 

But echo back his song. 

Sympathetic criticism and encouragement 
meant a great deal to him, and these were 
given him by Oscar Wilde. Like all generous 
spirits, the latter liked to praise, and when 
they met socially at the houses of London's 
smart set the kindly interest of the celebrity 
was highly appreciated by the aspiring play- 
wright. Their acquaintance had long since 
ripened into a fine friendship. Wilde's ex- 
quisite fairy tales had evidently inspired the 
young fellow, and one of the stories in the 
latter's first published book, — which breathes 
a spirit as pure and delightful as Wilde's 
own work, — contains a charming dedication 
to the author of " The Happy Prince." It 
was to these stories that Wilde probably re- 



ferred in the following note, which was re- 
cently found among his friend's papers: 

[16 Tite Street, 

Chelsea, N. WJ 
Dear . . . Just a line to tell you how sorry I am that 
you have left town, and how much I shall miss you. 

When you return we must make merry over a flagon 
of purple wine, and invent new tales with which to 
charm the world. O. W. 

One gloomy, rainy afternoon, the two 
men met in a deserted street. Wilde was 
driving in a hansom and he invited his friend 
to take the vacant seat beside him. X . . . 
accepted, and at once began to remonstrate 
with Wilde regarding certain ugly rumors 
which were circulating in London about him. 
The poet attempted to turn the matter into 
an epigram, but his friend would not be put 
off. He wanted a plain answer to the charges. 
Wilde refused to discuss the topic and finally 
called to the driver: "Stop to let this man 
out! I invited him for a drive, but he is 
not a gentleman!" 

The incident reads like a page from 



" Dorian Gray." The old relationship ended 
then and there, but X . . . always admitted 
his obligation as an artist to Wilde, contin- 
ued to look upon him as his intellectual in- 
spiration, and was among those who came to 
Wilde's aid after his release from prison. 
Before the rupture a voluminous correspon- 
dence existed between them, and X . . . 's 
library contained presentation copies of most 
of Wilde's works. "To X . . . , to whom 
the world has given both laurels and love, 
from his friend who wrote this book, May, 
'91 " is the typical inscription in one of them. 
Between the leaves of another volume there 
is one of Wilde's many beautiful, useless tele- 
grams which reads simply: "What a charm- 
ing day it has been! " Unfortunately, almost 
all the letters which passed between them 
seem to have been destroyed. A few happy 
notes from Wilde's wife to the young play- 
wright's mother still remain, in one of which 
she writes that Oscar "has become mad about 
golf, and spends two or three hours on the 



links every day, and this is so good for him." 
Cyril and Vivian, the children, have been 
having birthdays and whooping-cough. De- 
tails of her domestic happiness are given 
which are painfully touching in the light of 
the trials that were in store for her a few 
short years after these letters were written. 

The most precious souvenir of the friend- 
ship between the two men is the manuscript 
of the following poem, found in a presenta- 
tion copy of "Intentions." It has no title, 
and is signed "Oscar." 

Out of the mid-wood's twilight, 

Into the meadow's dawn, 
Ivory-limbed and brown-eyed 

Flashes my faun. 

He skips through the copses singing, 

And his shadow dances along, 
And I know not which I should follow, 

Shadow or song. 

O Hunter snare me his shadow, 

nightingale catch me his strain, 
For, moonstruck by madness and music 

1 seek him in vain. 



The poem was published under the tide 
"In the Forest," in 1889, in the Christmas 
number of "The Lady's Pictorial Magazine," 
and the last two lines were there changed to 
read : 

Else, moonstruck with music and madness, 
I track him in vain ! 

The calligraphy is large, clear, and youth- 
ful, quite unlike the almost illegible, flowing 
scrawl of his last letters, some of which we 
shall quote, or the neat, tiny hand of his 
middle period, when the following transcript 
of a dialogue with Coquelin was written. 
The conversation took place when Wilde 
was living in Paris at the Hotel Voltaire, 
on the quai of that name overlooking the 
Louvre and the river Seine. The first draft 
of " The Sphinx '' was also written there. 
Oscar's radiant personality was in those days 
a feature of the French literary salons. Sher- 
ard, in his book "The Story of an Un- 
happy Friendship," mentions the meeting 
between Coquelin and Wilde at a luncheon, 

m 



and adds that tjie actor was not greatly 
impressed by the poet. The dialogue is fol- 
lowed by some French " phrases and philos- 
ophies " and scraps of criticism, all taken 
from a large commonplace-book, bought at 
the sale of Wilde's effects, and printed here 
exactly as they were left. 

Coquelin: Qu'est-ce-que c'est la civilization, Mon- 
sieur Wilde? 

Ego: L'amour du beau. 

Coquelin : Qu'est-ce-que c'est le beau ? 

Ego: Ce que les bourgeois appelent le laid. 

Coquelin: Et ce que les bourgeois appelent le beau? 

Ego: Cela n'existe pas. 

Mon drame ? Du style seulement. Hugo et Shake- 
speare ont partage tous les sujets : il est impossible d'etre 
original, meme dans le peche" : ainsi il n'y a pas demo- 
tions, seulement des adjectifs extraordinaires. Le fin est 
assez tragique, mon heros au moment de son triomphe 
fait un epigramme que manque tout-a-fait d'effet, alors 
on le condamne a etre academicien avec discours forces. 

(Ego to Coquelin.) 

La poesie c'est la grammaire idealisee. (O. W.) 

L'art, c'est le desordre. 

(Garcon at the Voltaire.) 

BO 



Les maitres anciens, c'est la momie, n'est ce pas ? 

(Concierge at the Louvre.) 

Artiste en poesie, et poete ; deux choses tres difFer- 
ents : c. q. Gautier et Hugo. (O. W.) 

Baudelaire : un peu lourd : 

Zola : voit simple, et voit clair ; peut faire des masses. 

Pour ecrire il me faut de satin jaune. 

(O. W.) 

II me faut des lions dans des cages dorees : c'est af- 
freux, apres la chair humaine les lions aiment 1'or, et on 
ne le leur donne jamais. (O. W.) 

Un ami d'Ephrussi avait un tortue doree avec des em- 
erauds sur le dos : il me faut aussi des emerauds : des 
bibelots vivants. 

The only schools worth founding are schools without 
disciples. (O. W.) 

II y a quelque chose plus terrible encore que le bour- 
geois, — c'est l'homme qui nous singe. 

(Degas to Walter.) 

J'aime assez les applaudissements, mais enfin j'ai trouve 
que le public ne peut pas decouvrir les fautes : dans les 
arts monsieur, on peut toujours dissimuler ; moi-meme 
j'ai fait des fautes: mais je les ai toujours cache. . . . 
Quand je vois dans un nouveau pays j 'observe les coif- 
fures; je sais bien qu'il y a des gens qui s'occupent avec 
les batiments publics mais je me fiche de tout ca : pour 

on 



moi rien n'existe que les coiffures . . . mais pour etre 
coiffeur il faut etre physionomiste aussi. 

(My hair-dresser's conversation, Rue Scribe.) 

Interruptions have not merely their artistic value in 
giving the impression that the dialogue is created by the 
actors and not by the author, but they have their physi- 
cal value also, they give to the actor time to breathe, 
and fill his lungs again. 

Nothing is worth painting except what is not worth 
looking at. 

The Greeks discovered that "le beau etait beau": we, 
that " le laid est beau aussi." 

Ready-made beauty — for the bourgeois. 

Then follows what is apparently the table- 
talk of the poet Maurice Rollinat, who tried 
to rival Baudelaire on his own ground, and 
was going to pieces mentally and physically 
when Wilde and Sherard knew him. "It was 
drugs," writes Sherard — " drugs with him 
morning and night, drugs for food and drugs 
for sleep; cerebral excitement all the time. 
The result as we saw it was a terrible one, 
and we could fancy the nerve-wreck of 
Charles Baudelaire, before the bow snapped, 



from the ravaged picture before us." Rol- 
linat checked himself in time, however, and 
wrote some interesting decadent poetry, not- 
ably " Les Nevroses." Wilde invited him 
to a good dinner at the Voltaire, and our 
quotation may be Wilde's transcription of 
the French poet's own words, or ideas sug- 
gested to Wilde by what Rollinat said, or 
by the verses which he recited on that occa- 
sion. The page in Wilde's note-book is 
headed " Rollinat." 

II n'y-a q'une forme pour le beau mais pour chaque 
chose chaque individu a un formule: ainsi on ne com- 
prend pas les poets : 

Je ne crois pas au progres : mais je crois au stagnation 
de la perversite humaine. 

II me faut les reves, le fantastique ; j 'admire les chaises 
Japonais parce-que ils n'ont pas etait faits pour s'asseoir. 

— his idea of music continuing the beauty of the 
poetry without its idea.* 

* Errors in accents, spelling, and grammar have been printed 
as they appear in the original manuscript. 

M 



The book from which these fragments 
were taken contained much more, but the 
dealer into whose hands it fell was in the 
habit of tearing out the sheets and inserting 
them into copies of first editions of Wilde's 
books, to enhance their value for the many 
bibliophiles who collect his works. The 
propriety of publishing such scraps, left be- 
hind without an author's final revisions, is 
open to question, but the French fragments 
quoted above seem exceptional, for the slight 
errors and peculiarities of style throw some 
light on the alleged debt which Wilde owed 
to Marcel Schwob, through whose hands the 
manuscript of "Salome" passed before it 
was printed. At some future time we hope 
to be able to find a short German poem 
which Wilde wrote, after his imprisonment, 
on the fly-leaf of Peter Hille's " Petrarca," 
while he was reading it on the shores of 
Lake Garda, in the company of Hans Heinz 
Ewers. The latter has written a rather lurid 
account of Wilde's sojourn in Capri, where 



Ewers is remembered on account of his ex- 
ploration of the caves on the island. 

In publishing letters no such apology is 
necessary. The more spontaneous they are, 
the greater their value as personal docu- 
ments. As examples of epistolary style many 
of Wilde's letters are not particularly good, 
but had his correspondence with the play- 
wright, whom we have already mentioned, 
been preserved, it would have formed an 
interesting commentary on the works, for 
Wilde was fond of discussing literary experi- 
ments with his friend. 

A large number of Wilde's letters have 
already been sold in the auction rooms. If 
collected, these would be invaluable for some 
future biographer who will disassociate the 
man from the strange confusion of ideas 
which already attaches to his name, who will 
not fall into the error of sentimentalizing, 
and will write a literary, not a pathological, 
history. Richard Butler Glaenzer, in his 
book entitled "Decorative Art in America," 

M 



has published the letters to Miss Marie 
Prescott relating to the performance of 
Wilde's first play, " Vera," in New York, 
August 20, 1883; also a fine letter to 
Joaquin Miller, thanking him for the sym- 
pathy he extended to Wilde when the latter 
was insulted on his American lecture tour. 
Many more, which it is to be hoped Glaen- 
zer will bring together in a single volume, 
are still in his possession. The most im- 
portant of these are the letters, some of 
them facetious, to Leonard Smithers, relat- 
ing to the publication of the "Ballad of 
Reading Gaol "; a few charming social notes 
to the publisher's wife; a clever letter to 
Thomas Hutchinson, the book collector; 
and many relating to his American tour. 
Several of his letters to Richard Le Galli- 
enne were recently put up for sale. Like 
the famous " prose sonnet," which was 
read with terrible effect at the trial, and 
the letter reproduced in facsimile in Sherard's 
book, these last are full of those extrava- 



gant but quite innocent expressions which 
characterize most of Wilde's letters to 
friends. 

Colonel Morse, Wilde's manager, whose 
faith in the poet's character is to this day 
unfaltering, could also add many facts. His 
account of Wilde's delivery, in Boston, of the 
lecture on the English Renaissance of Art is 
particularly vivid and amusing. When the 
Colonel looked through the stage door and saw 
fifty or sixty Harvard students file into front 
rows with a Bunthorne gait, wearing knee- 
breeches and long silk stockings, blond wigs 
of flowing hair, bright satin cravats, coats, 
and even shoes, decorated with lilies or sun- 
flowers, he at once insisted that Wilde 
should change his aesthetic costume for a 
more conventional one. After some persua- 
sion he complied with his manager's request. 
The plucky Irishman, as Colonel Morse still 
calls him, then walked without any hesitation 
down the long stage, amid noisy cheers and 
howls, and at once turned the tables on the 



young burlesquers,. "As a college man, I 
greet you ! " he began, thus taking the wind 
out of their sails. Then he started his lec- 
ture by flattering the great audience, but 
feeling that the students required more at- 
tention, he again interrupted the thread of 
his argument, ran his eye over them, and 
remarked ironically that he considered it an 
honor to lecture in Boston, because he 
seemed to see certain signs of an artistic 
movement in the lecture hall. This was 
greeted by a prolonged roar of laughter, 
which was renewed when Wilde added that 
on seeing the young men he was compelled 
to breathe for the first time a silent prayer 
to be delivered from his disciples. 

J. M. Stoddart, the publisher of "Rose 
Leaf and Apple Leaf," can also give many 
interesting facts concerning Wilde's sojourn 
in America. Few people know that the cu- 
rious paper on which that book is printed 
was originally intended for early paper cur- 
rency, and was found in an old Philadelphia 



warehouse, where it had been stored since 
the Revolution. Some of the emblems 
scattered through the book were engraved 
on wood from sketches by the distinguished 
pioneer in American art, James Edward Kelly. 
The most interesting picture is the one, on 
the title-page, of the seal of a ring given to 
Wilde by his mother. Kelly saw a great 
deal of the poet, especially when the latter 
sat for the small bronze relief portrait which, 
when finished, won Wilde's enthusiastic ap- 
proval. "A bas-relief," he told the sculptor, 
"should be carved like a jewel. It must be 
full. There must be no waste spaces." 
Kelly's plaque and his etching (only the 
head of which was used as the frontispiece 
for the American edition of "De Profundis"), 
Albert Sterner's portrait for "La Plume," 
Toulouse-Lautrec's extraordinary sketch of 
Wilde on trial, Harper Pennington's oil por- 
trait, and W. P. Frith's sketch are, curiously 
enough, almost the only known authentic 
portraits of Wilde made by any of his nu- 




- "- :..' , 



The southwest corner of Irving Place and Seventeenth Street, New York City. 

The corner house was at one time the home of Washington Irving. 

Wilde resided in the building adjoining on the left. 



merous artist friends.* His point of view 
and criticisms were highly valued by Kelly, 
who was in the habit of transcribing in Bos- 
wellian fashion all the remarks of his brilliant 
sitter. He dwells with mournful interest on 
the visits to Wilde's attractive temporary 
New York home on Irving Place, next to 
the building once occupied by Washington 
Irving; his delightful walks up Fifth Avenue 
on "sunny Oscar Wilde mornings"; the social 
call on Lily Langtry and the heated dispute 
with her about the most becoming arrange- 
ment of Oscar's wavy locks ; the meeting at 
Wilde's request with Thomas Edison, whom 
the poet considered the greatest man in 
America ; the sparkling conversations between 
Wilde and John Boyle O'Reilly, at that time 
a handsome figure in Boston's literary circles ; 
Oscar's clever posing when interviewed by 

* Hermann Struck's charming etching, as well as most of the 
frontispieces to books about Wilde, were not made from life. A 
good drawing by an unknown artist is in the possession of Robert 
Ross. Beardsley and less important graphic artists often made 
caricatures of him. 

M 



American reporters; his witticisms and his 
inspired audacity; his superstitious dread of 
some catastrophe when his mother's ring, 
already mentioned, was found broken; his 
genuine grief over the failure of "Vera," 
jeered at quite justly by the critics as soon as 
the violent heroine appeared in a flaming 
vermilion gown, for which the playwright 
himself had purchased the material ; above 
all, his glowing eulogy of the lamented genius 
John Donoghue, whose beautiful figure of 
the young Sophocles leading the chorus of 
youths at Salamis is one of America's mas- 
terpieces. Wilde not only bought some of 
the sculptor's work, but in the course of a 
lecture in Chicago he went out of his way 
to praise the then unknown artist and made 
him famous. Poor Donoghue! Less than 
three years after his patron and discoverer 
had been laid to rest in the cemetery at Bag- 
neux, he went away to a lonely corner to com- 
mit suicide, and there was only one steadfast 
friend to see him to his humble resting-place. 



Robert Blum, the gifted painter whose 
fine works adorned the walls of Mendelssohn 
Hall in New York, was another artist whom 
Wilde admired. He would often walk into 
Blum's extraordinary studio, decorated with 
frescos of strutting peacocks, and amuse the 
sitters with his vein of gentle humour, his at- 
titudes, and his curious clothes. To one 
woman posing for Blum he suggested that 
she should wear his favourite colours, — cafe 
au lait and sage green, with a yellow tea rose. 
To another he remarked that Blum's de- 
licious tints gave him a sensation similar to 
eating a yellow satin dress. His repartee 
was brilliant and amusing, but not infre- 
quently he was compelled to retreat. On 
one occasion an American lady described 
something to him as " awfully nice." Oscar 
looked bored and exclaimed, "But 'nice' is 
such a nasty word!" Quick as a flash she 
replied, " Really, Mr. Wilde? But is < nasty' 
such a nice word ? " 

In a more or less intimate way, Wilde 



also enjoyed the society and hospitality of 
Julia Ward Howe, Oliver Wendell Holmes, 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Louisa Al- 
cott, Kate Field, General Grant, Henry Ward 
Beecher, William Chase, and many other 
American celebrities. The lecture tour 
brought him into touch with many noble 
natures and aroused his finest ambitions. 
America put him on his mettle by treating 
him like a great personality. He ceased to 
become a mere dilettante and experimenter. 
The long locks of hair and posturings which 
went with them were all discarded. It was, 
however, long after his return to England 
that he did his best work — "The Soul of 
Man under Socialism," of which he was 
pardonably proud ; the delicate fairy tales, 
" Intentions," and the plays, scintillating with 
the wittiest epigrammatic dialogue written 
since the days of Aristophanes. 

It was this enviable measure of success in 
life and in every form of literary endeavour 
that made the scandal of his downfall so 



shocking and deplorable. He was brought 
to a full stop at the very height of his splen- 
did career, and was suddenly driven back into 
the depths where he had once gone for sen- 
sations, after tiring, as he said, of being on 
the heights. His imagination was struck by 
lightning. Dublin's Greek medallist and 
the winner of the Newdigate was called upon 
to suffer an agony acute beyond ordinary 
human endurance. When he faced the 
world again the flowers in his fancy's wreath 
were scattered, and he finally returned to Paris 
to seek among its social outcasts a merciful 
oblivion, near the salons where he once rev- 
elled in the joy of life. The shy Ernest 
Dowson, who was then translating French 
classics and writing verses while on the verge 
of starvation, saw him occasionally in the 
cafes of the quarter. The lord of language, 
the embodiment of eternal youth and laugh- 
ter, had become a bankrupt and a byword, 
a terrible warning to men who dared defy 
society. The one pleasant incident in the 



record of this part of his career is his meet- 
ing with Fritz Thaulow at Dieppe. Wilde 
had been insulted by some English residents 
of the town in the presence of the big 
Northerner, when the painter walked up to 
the poet, and said in a clear voice which all 
the prudes could hear, " Mr. Wilde, my wife 
and I would feel honoured to have you dine 
with us en famille this evening." There he 
found Charles Conder, the decorator of exqui- 
site fans, and both men recovered something 
of their former gaiety in the charming atmo- 
sphere of the Thaulow home, filled with 
golden-haired children and their infectious 
laughter. Christian Krogh, the Norwegian 
painter, a relative of Thaulow's by marriage, 
has preserved some of the poet's conversation 
and made a pen-and-ink sketch of him, in 
a book entitled, "Smaa Dagsreiser" (Chris- 
tiania, 1897). Unfortunately, Wilde did 
not remain at Dieppe. His Irish spirit was 
gone, and soon we hear of him living under 
an assumed name in the Parisian mire, among 
soiled lives. Shunning the sunny places, he 



wandered about the mean streets where that 
curious problem of French literature, the 
mad De Nerval, had written masterpieces, 
where Rimbaud and Verlaine had lived so 
feverishly, where Josiah Flynt, the born vaga- 
bond, had chosen to roam because the squalid 
section of Paris was to him the most inter- 
estingly human. Leonard Smithers, who had 
helped Beardsley and who was advancing 
money to Dowson, now came to Wilde's aid 
also, and the pathos of the following letters 

to his publisher and friend requires no com- 
ment. 

June 23, 1898. 
My dear Smithers — Please send me £10. — and you 
will receive the MS. with its due corrections — I don't 
think you can receive it if you don't, as I am quite pen- 
niless, and on the brink of expulsion from my hotel — I 
do not receive anything till July 1st — I hope you will 
make up your mind about this coming to Paris, as Rob- 
bie has a suit of clothes for me and if you don't come 
I shall have to wait till I can pay the duty. I have gone 
to a little inn at Nogent — 
Address — 

M. Sebastian Melmoth 
L'Idee 

Le Perreux 

Nogent-sur-Marne 

on 



as I dare not go back to my Hotel and at Nogent I 
have credit. — 

Do please do this for me ai once* 

Yours O. W. 

Paris 

Aug. 12, 1898. 

Friday. 

My dear Smithers, Thank you very much for the 
cheque, which was a great boon, to the patron of the 
Hotel primarily, and in a secondary degree to myself. I 
am much obliged to you. 

I hope to receive my proofs soon. It is so hot in 
Paris that I simply cannot write a letter — at night it is 
charming but by day a tiger's mouth. If I could get 
away to the sea, all would be well. I saw Carrington 
the other night — he tells me of a wonderful book of 
poems you have published and has promised to let me 
see it. Carrington looked triste and hysterical— what 
a curious type he is — ! 

The English are very unpopular in Paris now — as all 
those who are over here under Cook's direction are thor- 
oughly respectable. There is much indignation on the 
boulevards. I try to convince them that they are our 
worst specimens — but it is a difficult task. 

Yr O. W. 

Even when he was an outcast the wit of 
the once blithe-spirited aesthete could not be 
suppressed, and it was peculiarly fitting that 



he should die jesting. Publishers and theat- 
rical managers had been trying to kindle his 
talents into flame. It was small wonder, 
however, that with his life's tragedy brand- 
ing him, he could not sufficiently concentrate 
his thoughts to find consolation in literature, 
although Andre Gide's essay shows that he 
was still a master of searching, matchless 
words. Having written his pathetic plea for 
imprisoned children and sung his sombre 
ballad, one of the most perfect poems of 
its kind, he closed his imperial lips forever. 
How amusing his comments would have 
been could he have read the apocryphal mat- 
ter written about him, and the long list of 
his literary progeny at home and abroad. 
How pleased he would be to know that his 
spirit is permeating the literature of Europe 
— of Germany especially. We are too near 
to be impersonal, and judgment in such a 
case will always be a matter of temperament. 
The tragedy of an unfulfilled life was his — 
a life abounding in pitiful paradoxes, con- 



trasts, and jarring notes of insincerity, from 
which his finest works are fortunately free. 
A lasting, immortal loveliness is theirs, and 
the words from the Book of Job carved on 
his first tombstone at Bagneux were happily 
chosen : 

October 16th 1854 — November 30th 1900. 

Verbis meis addere nihil audebant et super illos stilla- 
bat eloquium meum. — Job xxix, 22. 

R. I. P. 



M 



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